


Gone With the Wind

by EvieSmallwood



Series: the midnight chronicles [3]
Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drug Use, Like Really Fucking Sad, M/M, boris is sad, he misses his boyfriend and his dog, poor bby, someone hug him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-23 23:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14343315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvieSmallwood/pseuds/EvieSmallwood
Summary: The first night without him is the hardest, but every one after is full of a dull aching, ever-present; a yearning for someone he can’t reach, no matter how far he stretches himself.Unesennyye vetrom.





	Gone With the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Hey dudes! It’s another boreo fic because I’m emo :)

The first night without him is the hardest.

Is hard because, after that car dives away, after he goes and Boris’s stomach sinks low in his abdomen, something snaps. Is like someone takes scissors and hacks at whatever holds Boris’s heart up, so that it dangles by a thin thread—or maybe does not dangle at all, but drops; down into the chasm where Boris throws everything he is not supposed to feel or talk about (down there with those heated restless nights, with the scratchy sheets and the sand slapping against the windowpanes; with Theo’s breath hot against his shoulder—never touching, though, always there is space between them when they are like this—and then the warmth—slipping down through his insides to that endless pit, gone, gone).

Gone like Theo.

Boris stands there in the street for a moment with the sun beating down on his back, magnetised by the darkness of his shirt. He stands there long enough to get burns, but always he has those, so who cares?

He looks skyward, at the expanse of never-ending blue that Theo always was rambling about when wasted—like it could suck up the universe in a blink and bam! never would anyone know, how sad, Boris? we can just disappear and no one would be there to care?

Boris glares at the constellations he cannot yet see; the ones Theo would point out to him as they lay floating in the pool, arms outstretched, vision slightly blurred from alcohol, wide eyed with a wonder that Boris rarely possesses; that of childhood. He teaches Theo the names of the constellations in Ukranian, because it feels imperative in this moment to know something other than curse words; something beautiful and infinite, maybe. Just a feeling.

Already these things are now memories rather than constants. Five minutes, ten, fifteen—Boris breathes, in and out. He stifles what’s clawing at the skin of his belly from inside, trying to get leverage, to get free.

No, no, not today; someday, though. Is inevitable, yes? Someday everything will come crashing down on him like the ceiling of an exploded building, and he will be left in the rubble, alone.

 

 

On this night, Boris tosses and turns. He does not go back to Theo’s, because he cannot handle Xandra. 

(But also, he does not want to see that room; with the blue rug and the clothes strewn about and the smell—chlorine and weed and Theo—he cannot face it)

He could go to Kotku, but he is not in the mood, suddenly. Cannot bear to even think about her, much less look at her. It does not make sense, really; one minute he is itching to get back to her, the next she makes him queasy. Everything has been thrown off, now; the axis Boris has been revolving around, depending on, is gone. Like all gravity just poof! went away; leaving him to float aimlessly, with no tether.

Maybe he can chain himself up like that fucking bird. Maybe he should have chained himself to Theo, like that painting did, somehow. Then Theo would never go. He would stay for always and look at him with light, the way he’d done that night—fingers fumbling with the tape, gently removing the painting with more care than Boris had known he ever possessed.

Yes, he cannot be back there, or with Kotku. Instead he goes to his house; his father is mercifully gone, so it seems—no truck in the driveway and no Vodka or coffee on the table. Just quiet.

So, so quiet.

This is what Boris cannot stand the most. It is quiet in this house; even in the walls, without the air conditioning like Theo’s. It is quiet outside—the air cushioned with a thick, almost tangible dirt; no sound travels; is only stifled, or swallowed. Everything is coated in this. It seeps through the floor and up around Boris, encasing him in a shell of silence.

 _You have to be strong, Badr al-Dine,_ Ngabdurohman had told him—all of those years ago (one night, lying on his prayer rug in the mosque, with the twilight practically seeping through the intricately carved windows). _Moon is strong, light is strong; always there. So are you._

 _Sampeyan iku cahya, lan cahya iku tanpa wates. Sampeyan ora bisa tanpa wates lan ora kuwat_ —is written in his beat up copy of the Koran, kept under a pillow; unread these days, untouched.

Boris takes a deep breath. Then another, and another. Always from now on he will count his breathing; will be aware of it. A breath without Theo; he is breathing, too, somewhere. Boris thinks he would know if he died (horrible possibilities flash through his mind, then, with his foot on the bottom step; Theo getting knifed in some dark alley, Theo freezing to death, starving; slow killers, while Boris is here in a warm house with bread and sugar and beer).

He braces his hand against the wall. Cannot think like that—no good for anyone.

He goes to his room. Is dark out, now. Boris lays on his side in bed, curling into himself. So long it has been since he has slept like this; without a warm body beside him. Silence, it cuts into him like a knife, scraping over his skin.

No Theo—no hands on his body, no arms around him. No Popchyk, belly up and whimpering, legs kicking from night terrors. Sometimes Boris would sit there and wonder what the fuck it was dogs had terrors about. Then he would reach out and put his hand on Popchyk’s belly, jostling him gently awake. _No more bad dreams, Snaps, see? Just me and Theo._

Popchyk always snuggled closer on nights like those. Sometimes, so did Theo; lulled in my Boris’s voice, still half asleep—warm hands gripping his shirt, or, if he wasn’t wearing one; throwing an arm over him and pulling him.

They would wake up away from one another, but in the haze between night and sleep, always they were closest. Time did not exist and neither did rules; there were no boundaries, there was no speaking. Stifled moans and laughs, hissing, smothering with pillows. What Boris would give...

But now, it does exist; minutes pass and Boris cannot sleep. He rolls over and stares at the spot where Theo should be, running his hand over the cold sheet—cold to touch, yes, like a ghost is lying there—and feels the first tear fall.

* * *

He uses some of the money to go to MGM Grand; wasting a few days in a hotel; him and Katie and Amber and a bunch of other girls. Is good, for the time. Takes his mind away. They do so many drugs, and all kinds of new things.

He’s high as a fucking kite when he texts Theo; fingers clicking away at a phone that does not belong to him, shaking, feeling his heart pound against his chest for the first time in fucking days; he feels alive.

“Give me my phone back,” Amber whines.

That is the end of that (and maybe it is for the better), in an instant. Boris types a quick message and hands the phone back. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, tasting the salty perspiration, and wonders.

About Theo, and New York. What is this like for him, now? Sick in bed. Who’s bed? How sick? Will he be okay? Who is taking care of him and Popchyk?

Not for the first time, he has the almost (very nearly) uncontrollable urge to get up, drop it all, and go after him. His leg twitches with the desire, even, but then Amber’s hand comes down on his shoulder. She straddles his waist, smiling all coy like a Russian minx. Boris is distracted enough that it almost fades away entirely.

After that, it gets bad.

Boris uses the blow they stole; half and half. He knows he is supposed to sell it and follow Theo, but this will never happen. Is too tempting to just... use it himself. (Is too painful to consider the possibility of showing up wherever the fuck Potter is, or to never be able to find him again;

 _Who’s bed?_ )

He takes it slow, at first; chipping away at it, very conscious of each bit lost. But then, on dark nights alone, Boris does too much. Drinks too much, smokes weed, does the blow—a lot a lot of blow, and fuck, it is very bad.

But also, in some ways, not so; for a little while Boris lives in a sort of in-between state—no problems and no sadness. Just him and this baggie and the endless fucking desert, rolling velvet sky and constellations that are becoming less familiar with time. What is name of this one? How is this one being again?

When he runs out, he goes to Kotku. She gives him weed and cocaine, only small amounts though—not nearly what he’s been using. No E, too expensive. She is too scared to do it, now, after nearly O.D.ing on the hotel floor.

Boris hangs around her; stays at her place, all night long. Soon enough, though, they stop fucking. Why, Boris does not know; he is not in the mood, then she is not, and then they are both too high or passed out so who cares?

They go to parties; they do more blow, they get drunk out of their minds. There is loud music and bright lights and people Boris does not know, but he does not care. He stays by Kotku.

Only after a while she gets sick of this. At parties, she walks away. Find your own friends, she says.

Boris follows anyway. Kotku gets angry, starts shoving and hitting; right there in the middle of the scene. Her nails rake over his cheek. “I’m sick of you around me all the fucking time!” She screams. “Get your own life.”

Really, is very rude, Boris thinks (absentmindedly dabbing at the blood on his face, moving it around on the pads of his fingers). Rude to hit for no reason. Where else is he supposed to go?

He doesn’t hit her back; she is not worth it, really; he is not so sure if he loves her or ever did, because it is becoming increasingly more apparent what exactly love is. He hadn’t known, before; hadn’t ever known a good touch until those nights with Theo, when his brow had hung low in consternation and finally he’d scrounged up the courage to reach out and pull him closer. After that it was too late; Theo’s warm skin and his quick breathing and musky smell. Too far gone.

And really, is okay. Is fucking fine.  _Po prostu genialny_. She can do as she fucking pleases; every time he looks at her he feels anger bubble up in him, more and more, how to stop it he doesn’t know. Maybe it will never go away; the feeling ( _fuck her, she ruined it; brainwashed me, took me away and made Potter hate me_ ).

( _Is not true, but it is easier to think this_.) 

Boris dumps Kotku; big fight, lots of fucked up things said between them. Only, he stays on her couch for a few more nights, and they finally fuck some more, careless with no strings. They do more drugs and drink more and go to more fucking parties, and soon one week becomes two, two becomes three, a month, more.

By the end of it, shit is very bad.

Mostly, is the drugs. Boris has been dealing them at school. Very bad business, kind of; good money, high risk. Who cares if he gets kicked out of the place? Not him, no; but getting arrested? This is a concern.

It is easy enough to stay under the radar for a while; Boris tries to be as inconspicuous as he was before, with Theo. Under the table, behind the school at the right time, under the bathroom stall. As long as no one sees, as long as no one knows.

He doesn’t give a fuck about school, not like Theo had. Boris knows that under the careless way he’d spoken of it, there was a sort of passion; sometimes his eyes would light up in History, or he’d go off in English class. He had not loved it, no—but maybe he hadn’t hated it, the way he always said.

They have food, so Boris keeps going. There are lots and lots of people—unbearable, obnoxious people, yes—but still they are noise, still they make him feel less lonely.

The school year ends. There’s a party at Amber’s place; lots of people, lots of coke. Boris does so much he blacks out.

Boris wakes up face down in the driveway of his house the next morning, skin burnt and hair dusty.

* * *

When he goes inside, the house is empty; only this time, is different. There is a sort of chaos Boris can sense, like a bloodhound—things have been moved, in a hurry. Dust that was long settled has been kicked up.

The Vodka is gone, as is everything his father owns.

There is a note on the kitchen table, written in his lazy hand—scrawled, with the letters deeply pressed into the paper; staring starkly up at Boris, almost taunting.

_Pishov u Avstraliyu. Ty budesh v poryadku. Vybachte._

Boris lets the note fall. He closes his eyes, swaying on the spot. His head is throbbing from hangover, and he has nothing to fix it. No one to help.

Stumbling, half blind, he leaves the house. Is long walk to CAT train station, but he makes it; the sun beams down with an imposition that goes unchallenged by any cloud—it bores into him, knowing, seeing.

_What does the moon look like in Indonesia?_

_What are you on about?_

_Or, I don’t know, Russia? Is it just the same as here?_

_Same everywhere._

Now, Boris wonders; does the sun look the same in New York? Does it know things about Theo, too? Things Boris will never know, with the thousands of miles between them?

The sun can see him. At night, the moon is with him.

Boris wishes, more than ever, that he truly was Badr. Then he could be with Theo now, too.

* * *

Wasted. Fucked. Hopeless.

 _Vmyraye_.

He really does think so; stumbling through the dark. There’s sand on his pants and a bottle of Vodka in his hand—liquid sloshing around has he sways from side to side, tripping over his loose shoelaces and praying soon he will get there.

Soon he will be home.

The porch light is on, fuck knows why. Boris manages up the walk, as he has a thousand times before.

Time, time. What is time? Too late? Will she be up?

Boris slams his fist against the door. “Xandra!”

Nothing. No Popchyk barking, no Larry—beaming stupidly and high as hell. No Theo, rolling his eyes and stepping aside for Boris.

He rings the doorbell. “Xandra!”

Nothing, still. Again and again and again Boris rings it, thousands of times or more.

By now he is crying. The tears fall so easily down his cheeks, like they have been hidden there all these months, just waiting. His body convulses, folding into itself with every sob.

Boris is on his knees, retching and heaving, vision blurry. No noise, nothing. She might not even be here anymore.

Probably he is all alone forever. He is going to die.

Angrily, Boris scoops up the bottle of Vodka by the neck and hurtles it at the door. It explodes; a shower of glass and clear liquid.

“Fuck you!”

Something shifts inside; the blinds move infinitesimally. Even in his stupor Boris catches this. He sucks in a deep breath, running for the door, mindless of the shards that cut through his jeans and dig into his legs. “Please! Please, _please_ let me in! Please, I have nowhere! I have no one, I’m going to fucking die, please! I’ll kill myself, I swear, _please!_ ”

His fist collides with wood, over and over. Then he gives up, sinking down, curling up as small as he can go—crying and missing what he can’t get back.

The door opens.

* * *

Boris does not remember Xandra taking him inside or helping him upstairs. He doesn’t remember her cleaning off his bloody knees or removing his clothes.

But he wakes up in boxers with the sun shining through the window—right against his face. It warms his cheeks, bringing up a flush. On the nightstand is a glass of water and some aspirin. Boris takes those, chugging them down swiftly to stop the pulsating of his brain. 

His hair is plastered to his forehead, sticky with the sweat already present. Boris’s whole body trembles. He grasps desperately for the blanket, fingers curling around the fabric—

 _Potter_.

It smells like Theo. Like weed and chlorine and home. Just this makes Boris’s whole body relax; he sinks into the sheets, burying his head against the pillow. It is easy enough to imagine Theo is right here with him, or close enough by.

He closes his eyes, breathing deep, digging his nails into the mattress. Never has he missed someone so badly. Never has it hurt to lose a person this much.

For a good minute, he just pretends. He imagines Potter sleeping beside him, a dead weight. If he reaches out, he can feel the slight muscles beneath his skin, present when he stretches. He can feel Potter’s ribs, his fingers...

It’s all just an echo. A memory, screaming through the past into the present. 

It is too tempting to cry, only Boris doesn’t; no tears come, though his chin wavers. He hides himself in the folds of the blanket, sucking in stuffy air.

“I need you,” he whispers—right into the pillow, where no one will hear. Does not matter anyway, even though is true.

It must be, with the way his heart was ripped out and torn to pieces; with the tornado that swept through his insides and left him all in shambles.

 _Badr_ , moon. Same everywhere; always hurting, always carrying around something—dark spots of pain, swallowed up by shadow.

The sun, warm and pleasant against him now. That’s Theo. Theo is so bright he blinds, and Boris has no light without him.

From now on, when he misses him, he will talk to the sky. Maybe then Potter will hear him, all those lightyears away.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this one lowkey sucks but like, I tried. Idk if I could’ve done it better but I HAD to write it when I did, so.
> 
> Yikes! 
> 
> Follow my tumblr: @pavikovsky


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